Fear. When your adrenaline spikes, and your limbs shake, and you can't keep your hands steady. Maybe it's that big test that your entire grade depends on that you did not realize was today. Maybe it's when your crush is looking at you and you're having a bad hair day.

For Molly? For Molly, it was a lot of things. It was public speaking and spiders and new people and large crowds and attention being on her, but it most certainly was never her boyfriend. Not until now it wasn't.

And the pathetic thing was- he wasn't even there. That's right. Little Miss Molly, prim, proper, and polite, was terrified of her boyfriend whom was not even present at the moment. But most people probably wouldn't blame her. Not with whom her boyfriend was just revealed to be.

Not when she'd just discovered her boyfriend was Moriarty, the Moriarty, and- they'd kissed. She'd kissed England's, and quite possibly the world's, most dangerous man.

Great.

But now, what was she supposed to do? That one officer who was always ever so polite when he came to the morgue- Greg, she thought- had called twenty minutes before her shift ended to deliver the unfortunate news. And Molly had to leave sometime. But she had no money for a cab, and who was she to call at three AM for a ride? It looked like she'd be walking the next forty-five minutes, constantly glancing over her shoulder in case Jim Brook- No. Moriarty. He was Moriarty, not the awkward boyfriend, he was a consulting murderer, and he did not love her. He loved killing, and expensive suits, going by Sherlock's ramblings, but he most certainly did not love Molly. All those sweet little gestures he'd shown her had turned out to be meaningless after all.

She finished closing the lab up with a sigh. For a few weeks, just one or two, she'd felt important. Not a nothing like Sherlock made her feel, not push-over Molly in the morgue who would cover shifts on holidays because she never had plans, but Molly, someone's girlfriend, someone that another person spent time thinking about.

He probably does still think of me, she thought bitterly as she walked down the dark hallway. She was the last one there, as usual. Thinks of how big of a fool I am and how he's going to murder me. Wonder who'll do my autopsy. She shook her head and pushed the door open. Instantly, biting wind and stinging rain hit her face. The drops were heavy and each was a slap to the face, scolding her for actually believing that someone could care for her like that.

By the time Molly had walked for ten minutes, her clothes were thoroughly soaked. Each step she took made a slosh slosh noise and she just wanted to be home. The rain stopped all at once, but when she looked up, it was still raining around her. She looked at the person who was shielding her from the weather. It was Jim, but not Molly's Jim. Not Jim from IT who was probably gay and wore tight shirts and was awkward and hunched over when he was near her so she wouldn't feel so short. No. This was Moriarty. But, strangely enough…

Molly wasn't afraid.

"Here to kill me," she asked conversationally. She then gestured vaguely toward the umbrella he was carrying, sacrificing his own expensive suit to try to keep Molly dry. "Quite kind of you to bring this. Raining awfully hard tonight."

"Well, as for killing you," he said. She liked this voice better. It didn't fumble for words and squeak and stutter. It was eloquent and smooth and the voice of a bad person who'd killed many people. Maybe she didn't like this voice all that much. "As for killing you, we'll see how the night goes," he finished, tilting his head as if actually debating Molly's life and death. "And I couldn't let my little mouse get hypothermia."

"First of all, I'd get a common cold at most. Second, either you're going to kill me or you're not." This was al the confidence and wits that Molly bottled up and hid behind a mask of stutters. She didn't know why it was coming out right now; possibly she knew her death was close and so decided to use her cleverness and sarcasm.

"Oh, kitty's got claws," he remarked, bumping her slightly. She smirked and bumped him back.

"Thanks for walking me home. Never know who's waiting out there. Psychopaths. Murderers. Oh, wait…" She looked up at him, her expression hard. He stopped walking and she did as well. Moriarty took the opportunity to push her against the brick wall behind her, which made her cut her back up a bit. For the first time since this meeting had begun, Molly was afraid.

"Molly, Molly, Molly, where did all this confidence come from, you mousy little girl?"

"Get off of me," she squeaked, as he was pressed quite tightly against her. Was that…lust in his eyes? Impossible. He stared her down for a second before backing away with a shrug. His expression was neutral, and whatever had been in his eyes was gone now. They were dead once again.

"You should speak up more often, sweetheart, people might not push you around as much."

"I'll take my advice from someone who isn't a murderer, thanks."

"Oh. You're still not over that?" She glanced sarcastically at her watch.

"Hm. Seeing as it's been sixty minutes since I found out that my ex-boyfriend is a crazed murderer, no, I'm not over it." They were at her apartment. She walked up without another word, but Jim called out to her just as she reached her door.

"Molls!" She turned at the familiar nickname that now sounded taunting. He smiled seductively and winked. "Doesn't have to be 'ex'." She rolled her eyes, flipped him off, and walked into her apartment, soaking wet and tired and thrilled and afraid and betrayed and- excited. Excited for what might come. And that made Molly sound completely out of her mind, but Molly didn't care anymore. No more 'Molly the Mouse'. She was a new Molly, the one only Jim the Psychopath and Toby the Cat had seen, and she planned on making the best of this new Molly.